A Sherlock Teapot And A John Kitty
by TapTapAlways
Summary: This is a selection of silly - as well as thoroughly sweet - Sherlock variations.
1. Prologue

_This is a selection of small stories of Sherlock Alternative Universes, such as freeroaming kittens Sherlock and Molly, Doberman John or a Very Lovely Teapot... with a bee-motif!_

 _There will be three or four of them at least, interspersed with one longer story, and no copyright infringement is intended._

 _TapTap_

The first impression was of softness. Tiny little blond paws with soft pads, and large blue eyes looking at you as if the tiny kitten's heart was about to break. It could have made even Sally Donovan's cold heart melt in sympathy, but she neither saw nor heard anything, as usual.

The case in question was simple, barely a two, actually - but Sherlock had been bored, there hadn't been an interesting murder in almost three days, after all - and it was solved in a moment. Without even bothering to articulate the words "I'll text you the solution (in an hour, just to be difficult)" Sherlock ducked under the police tape and went to rescue the itty bitty kitten from the stormpipe it was slowly slipping into, seemingly having gotten one of its tiny paws stuck. Freeing the animal - which strangely didn't try to bite or claw at Sherlock at all - was the matter of a moment.

 _Normally, Sherlock seems to be the pet and someone else the human, in mixes like this, so I thought I'd prove that even our mad consulting detective can keep a pet successfully! This story will be more deeply explored between the smaller alternative universes._

 _TapTap_


	2. A Beautiful Teapot (And An Old Teacup)

_This is the first of the little one-shots which will be randomly interspersed with the longer Johnkitty! story._

 _I claim no copyright rights and mean no infringement._

 _TapTap_

It was a particularly beautiful teapot. A crisp white, with the most delicate, chestnut-brown bees painted onto the precious china sometime long ago, the only break of the seemingly endless bone-white a sequence of seemingly random letters underneath it, in that same, warm brown.

Mrs Hudson had always loved that particular teapot. She had found it by accident during her uni years in a small antique shop, the last year before she met her husband, and she had cherished it since then. It was slightly mismatched with the old teacup it had been paired with by the half-blind old man who'd owned the shop, but she had never seen fit to separate the delicate bone china with its well-made brown patters, so beautiful and so breakable, from the sturdy flaxen teacup a previous owner had scrabbled the name "Captain John" onto with a childish handwriting, which had surely once belonged to a fearsome young pirate captain. Apparently called John.

Mrs Hudson never used the teacup, but she always left it by the teapot in between making tea in it, she always had. She wasn't sure why, but something in her fancied that they belonged together.

Of course, she was an old woman now, with her uni days far behind her, but the teapot was shining as brightly in her cosy living room as it always had. That it had been a loyal hiding place for the microphone the police had given her in order to prove her abusive husband's illegal activities had only endeared it further to her, but that, too, was years ago. It had been a wonderful ally though: together, she and the teapot had brought down the entire criminal empire she had only seen hints at the edges of.

"What do you think, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson addressed the loyal teapot, named so after those letters at its base "shall I make some tea?" With a smile, she rose. She had some time left before she was needed to welcome those new tenants of hers - one could wonder what they'd be like.


	3. A Cat Called (Captain) John

_This is another Kitty!John chapter._

 _I claim no copyright rights and mean no infringement._

 _TapTap_

"Don't do that, John," Sherlock chided, only to frown at himself. He hadn't yet properly named the tiny kitten he'd brought home two days ago, but if anything, he had been thinking of calling it (him) "Captain". Where had "John" come from? He'd have to search the mind palace for the connection later.

Said kitten was looking up at him with those huge, blue, innocent eyes from where it had scratched at the carpet, and it looked so sad and guilty that Sherlock just had to pick him up. Mycroft would tell him not to get so attached, so involved, to avoid _sentiment_ , ("Captain, brother, really? Remember Redbeard?") but then again, he wasn't all that attached to _Mycroft_ , so he'd keep the cat and just not listen.

Pleased with this plan, Sherlock cradled the fluffy little creature - already looking more healthy after a visit to the vet and two days of a proper food regime - to his chest and flopped (very cautiously, though the cat had always seemed unmoved by his somewhat sudden movement pattern in the past) onto the couch to make that visit to his mind palace.

Sherlock wandered the hallways of his mind leisurely, more so than he usually did, but if anybody asked him, he'd fervently deny that it had anything to do with the tiny blond kitten napping at his chest back in the real world as his mind walked, purring all the while. He'd lie.


	4. Judge Me By My Ears (And My Friends)

_This is a one-shot story, idea by Nova. (Making Molly the joint girlfriend of Mycroft and Moriarty was not her fault though, so don't blame her. It was entirely the plotbunnies fault. And Jims! By the way, the two men aren't together, they_ hate _each other. But they both love Molly.)_

 _I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

Mike Stanford was a respectable, even boring professor of Medicine at Barts medical college and hospital. He didn't even have a tail (and everybody knew that being a wild nature came with possessing a tail) and his ears were those of a french bulldog. Most of his students assumed that he had never, ever, done anything interesting ever in his entire life.

That was why the entire group of students who were currently crammed into a booth at the small pub were busy picking their jaws up off of the floor. Mike Stanford was there, too, in the pub, but he was not alone.

He was there with mousy Molly Hooper, the mouse-eared pathologist from the third floor labs, which no one found peculiar at all, as the two were on decidedly friendly terms and both as boring as the other. Her white mouse ears were peeking out of her dark hair, both decorated with glitter as a nod to the season. It was december 14:th, after all.

With them, however, was the most unlikely - and frankly, most eerie - group of men imaginable. Next to Molly, in fact, sitting on either sides of her each with an arm around her (though supremely careful not to touch one another, as if by previous agreement between the two), was a man with auborn hair and a grey three-piece-suit, looking like the devil himself, and on her other side, was a dark-haired man wearing a darker suit, looking even scarier. The first had the eyes and ears of a fox, and the second those of a wolf.

Across from them sat a greyhaired man in a suit-jacket and jeans, looking like he commanded respect (the students didn't know it, but this man was in fact a chief-inspector) and sporting the ears of some sort of large cat animal, maybe a lion. In the corner sat a blond man with a wholly jumper which made you assume his ears would be those of a sheep. They weren't though - the students didn't have a good view of him, but rottweiler looked like a good guess, and _he_ , most definitely _did_ have a tail.

Perhaps strangely, judging from the rest of the group (but matching the students' opinions of Professor Stanford) was, quite literally a little old lady. She looked very harmless at first, until you realised she had the wings of an eagle at her back, making her a genuine griffin - so rare a breed that the students hardly believed it.

Lastly, there was a couple sitting there, both dark, dangerous and gorgeous. She was wearing a dark dress and red lipstick, her long black hair untamed and falling down her shoulders from her head - strangly lacking ears. Had the students been able to spot her eyes, with the slitted pupils and or seen her forked tounge, they would have known this was because snakes do not have visible ears. The man who was holding her so tenderly seemed to have scales covering his neck, but crocodiles do not have much more visible ears than snakes do.

Maybe it was lucky that the students couldn't see more than they did, because they were already shocked enough. The next time Mike Stanford mentioned he was going out for a drink with his old colleague, army doctor John Watson and Molly Hooper, nobody assumed it would be a boring affair with people just as boring as the two people they knew were. Mike never specified that they would be joined by Molly's two husbands, the unofficial king of England and the unofficial king of crime, or John's flatmate before they both got married and his wife the spy, not to mention John's wife the assasin, but then again, no one ever dared to ask.

 _Mary is out killing somebody when Mike's students spot them. And yes, the awesome Griffin lady is Mrs Hudson. Of course she's more awesome than anybody else. I hope you enjoyed it!_

 _TapTap_


	5. There Is Nothing Wrong With Being Loyal

_This is another Kitty!John chapter._

 _I claim no copyright rights and mean no infringement._

 _TapTap_

The flat was silent. A long and thoroughly exhausting case had forced even Sherlock to go rest after its conclusion, and Mrs Hudson had cleaned a bit, fed the adorable kitten she was already doting on and spoiling far too much (much like Sherlock, in many ways, come to think of it) and gone downstairs to her own place to do some baking.

The kitten had been sleeping on Sherlock's spare pillow for a bit, until it had heard its extra-mummy in the kitchen opening cat food, which naturally made it move in just a streak of cat-coloured movement until it was there, ready to recieve cuddles and food.

After it had eaten and Mrs Hudson had long gone away, it had re-explored the place. Climbing the bookcases was a fun sport, and the windowsills were just wide enough to accomodate a kitten but not so wide that it got too easy and boring. It was a good morning.

After that, the kitten called Captain John since several days now scratched on the carpet seeing that Sherlock wasn't there to stop him, only to be rudely interrupted by steps in the staircase, which didn't belong to _his humans_. Intrudors? The tiny cat's ears peeked up and he promptly knocked a full set of pans over in the kitchen, before those steps had made it to the door. Best wake daddy up, after all, they _could_ be dangerous.

The cat was back in the lounge, staring at the door from his vantage spot next to the skull on the mantelpiece, once the door finally opened.

Mycroft Holmes entered his brother's apartment with a frown on his face. Sherlock had been behaving out of character lately, and he wanted to know why. Normally, he already _would_ have known, but his brother did have an uncanny gift to slip out of the net of intelligence. It was frankly alarming, and if Sherlock ever teamed up with a criminal, Mycroft himself would have to take to drastic measures to catch them at it.

His was a massive intellect, and he could have come up with frankly thousands of scenarios, but none of them included a tiny, blond-furred _kitten_ sitting on his brother's mantelpiece (how had it gotten _up_ there, anyway?) glaring at him as if it took personal affront to his presence.

Even stranger, though he could easily tell that Sherlock had been sleeping, and he _certainly_ hadn't made enough noise to wake him from the sleep of the dead he always slept after a case (and _that_ , he did have all the details on) Sherlock came striding into the room a moment later, glaring at him.

"Brother," Mycroft greeted him aimably, only to be met with a glare. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock's tone was harsh, and still a little sleep-dazed. "I just came to check up on my baby brother," Mycroft assured, though he knew he wouldn't be believed. He would have added a rethoric "is that not allowed?" but he already knew his brother wouldn't take it that way, but respond, and he also knew what the answer would be, so he abstained.

He did try to walk further into the room, but quickly realised that he couldn't. Specifically, because his path was blocked by a tiny, but _very_ aggressive cat with all its hairs standing out, who was suddenly in the way, having placed itself between Mycroft and his brother. Signs in the room (and Sherlock's odd behaviours) suggested that he'd only had the cat for about a week, so it seemed this pet was getting _very_ loyal, very fast.

Mycroft might have been a bit of an oaf, but he was not stupid, so he didn't try anything foolish, such as bending down to the cat and trying to calm it any any way. Instead, he looked at his glaring brother, back down to the glaring cat, and decided to turn around. He could hear his brother snicker as he made his way down the stairs, but convinced himself quickly that it didn't matter. He had the information he came for.

Half an hour later saw Mycroft back to work, using his persuation on people it actually worked on, and Sherlock back in his bed, asleep, guarded by a purring, blond cat, who was still looking fluffy from its earlier aggression, as if it was wearing a woolly jumper. Now, however, the cat was as calm as cats could be, his eyes half-closed as he guarded _his_ human.


	6. More To Her Than Meets The Eye

_This chapter is a one-shot._

 _I claim no copyright rights and mean no infringement._

 _TapTap_

Patologist Molly Hooper was a loner, and she seemed the sweet, shy kind of girl you'd spot with a cat, watching some silly series with some ice cream at a Friday evening.

That was why Lestrade and his team of crime-solvers at the Yard almost fell over themselves with shock when they spotted her as a witness at this particular crime scene. There had been a man with a gun attacking a random cafe - not something which screamed that everyone involved had to be interesting, by itself, for sure. But the attack had failed for one single reason, namely, Lestrade's brief from the emergency services had provided, a lady with two very special pets. And it seemed that this lady was in fact, Molly Hooper.

Because next to this likable but thoroughly undramatic woman Lestrade would confess he rather liked, sat a dog which when sitting, reached his owner up way past her hip. He looked like a straight cross between a fighting dog of some unindentified race (what large, dangerous dogs were there that light, Lestrade asked himself) and a wolf. And lying on her shoulders leisurely watching them all with alarmingly astute eyes for a cat, was the blackest cat Lestrade had ever seen.

"Molly?" He asked cautiously as he approached her (them?) almost relieved when he got an armful of upset forensic pathologist. At least, something was normal. "Oh, Greg! It was awful! thank god John reacted like that - that's my dog, he used to be an army dog, guarding the medics, I adopted him when he couldn't work any longer because he caught a bullet for one of the doctors - and I barely saw what happened, but..." Molly was talking very fast, and Greg was silently frateful that she broke down and sobbed against his shirt, giving him time to process all of that. "There, there," he said self-consiously, a bit uncomfortable with her crying, as he tried to get his head around all of that.

Thankfully, Sally came to his rescue, as well as both the pets, the cat purring seemignly just to soothe his owner, and the down placing one of his giant paws of Molly's leg as soon as she sat down, the large and frankly alarming-looking dog radiating concern for his owner in a very loyal fashion. In the end, since said Dog (John, apparently, Lestrade remembered from Molly's rushed monologue) had already caught (and thoroughly scared him it seemed, Lestrade could understand that reaction though, not that the man hadn't thoroughly deserved it) their culprit, it was a short case, but no one ever looked at Molly quite the same - especially when she started to bring her pets to the morgue with her.

John the dog seemed content to sleep in the corner ("He's actually really friendly, if you're not threatening me or Sherlock - that's my cat," Molly assured everyone who had to come there) but the black cat - Sherlock, apparently - was always found lying in the most disturbing places, far too close to the corpses for anybody's comfort, watching as if he understood. But he never, ever, contaminated evidence, so they let him be. Eerie, though, they would be telling each other on breaks when Molly was not there. "It is if the cat understand, and considers itself her little helper!"

This was ridiculous, of course, and the cat could have told them that, if he could have spoken. It was obviously the other way around.


	7. Let's Just Be Happy

_This is the last Kitty!John chapter, also finishing up this story. I hope you have all enjoyed it!_

 _I claim no copyright rights and mean no infringement._

 _TapTap_

It was December 27. Sherlock had lived through Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade's insistences of "a little bit of Christmas spirit" and now Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had gone on holidays away from London, leaving him alone with his best two listeners: his skull and his John. Much as he'd never admit it (though he knew they'd figured it out anyway) he loved his friends, but as far as conductors of light were concerned, there was really nobody like his John.

Said conductor of light was right now napping at Sherlock's chest, having tired himself out earlier in the day with playing with all the string from the Christmas gifts everybody had inisted on (and Sherlock had honestly enjoyed, too).

Sherlock could relate. He, too, enjoyed his cat naps, not to mention that he crashed after an exhausting case, probably looking much like the tiny blond ball of fluff currently using him for a bed. Except the tiny, blond and fluffy part, perhaps.

Sherlock was about to consider a catnap along with the cat when his mobile phone rang. he frowned at it. He much preferred to text, and Mycroft would not be so foolish as to call today, so who was that?

Reaching out a hand gingerly not to disturb John, Sherlock grabbed the phone and looked at the display before answering - still not wanting to disturb the cat. He might have been cold outwardly, but anyone close to him could have told you, that Sherlock cared deeply about those few lucky people (and one cat) that he cared about.

"Hi," the shy and nervous voice of Molly greeted him. "I was thinking, now that you have a cat too, maybe we could let them meet? I think John would really like Tony, and he could use the company, I think and... maybe... eh..." Sherlock sighed. He was tired of this game. "Molly, he said honestly, trying not to be rude - he didn't actually want to hurt Molly (again) - after all. "I am not that pleasant a man, you know. If we actually started to date, I would make your life miserable. I always say such horrible things, remember? Every time. Always. How could you live with that?" Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly, trying to convey all the fact without making Molly upset again. He was not the best at such things, he knew, but he was, truly, _trying_.

"It would not get better from being with me, Molly - it would only get worse. You are lovely, Molly. Quite lovely. It is not that I couldn't want you - it is that you, and we both know it, deserve better. You deserve someone who would be as kind to you as you always are. To everybody. " On his chest, the cat purred, as if proud of him.

On the other side of the phone, Molly was silent, as if stunned. "We could still... try?" "Molly..." Sherlock sighed. "You'd only be miserable, and hurt, even if it would doubtlessly let you get over me more quickly. Not for me though." "What do you mean?" Molly genuinely sounded bevildered by that hint of an admission. "I could fall for you easily... and I would not get over it so easily. I'd have no reason to." Sherlock had no idea how he was saying such terrible, _sentimental_ things out loud, it was bad enough that he was thinking them (not that he'd been aware that he had been doing so until this very moment).

This time, Molly was truly silent, then, cautiously, she asked again. "I could bring Toby over so that he could meet John?" Sherlock did not know what that was supposed to mean - beyond the obvious - if it was capitualtion or a new attack, of Molly understood or not, if it was an olive branch (such a ridiculous expression and not even terribly historially accurate) or invitation, but he heard himself sighing, and agreeing.

Maybe it would not be so bad. Maybe Molly understood better than he gave her credit for - was less fragile than he had given her credit for. She was still here, wasn't she?

So when Molly showed up, cat carrier in hand and with a nervous smile on her face, lipstick light but there, Sherlock was polite. When she suggested that they get takeout as the afternoon ran on, them watching the cats play happily with each other, he agreed. And when she finally fell asleep on his couch, resting against him, he let her be. He settled on merely draping a blanket over her sleeping form and resigning to be used as a pillow by three separate others: his cat, her cat, and the woman who really mattered, to _him_.

She might not be the dramatic puzzle of a woman - someone dangerous and drastic, maybe - that _most people_ would guess that he would fall for, but what did they know, in the end? As Sherlock could tell anybody who wondered (and usually _did_ , too), _most people_ were actually idiots, so he'd be the _last_ to take such advice.

After all, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And Sherlock still wanted Molly there, enjoyed her presense in his life, all things considered, and his reasons for why that must be, unless his earlier words had spoken _true_ , were running _dangerously_ thin.

It was only a matter of time, after that, before Mrs Hudson was notified that there would finally be a use for that upstairs bedroom, because Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss. Molly Hooper were moving in together, and they were expecting a third (or fifth, one might say) tenant to join them in early June. Mrs Hudson could hardly have been more delighted, and the tiny blond cat resting next to the skull on the mantelpiece was purring all through the conversation, as if he understood every word. Sherlock and Molly both thought that maybe, he did.


End file.
